Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 345: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

284 Pickwick Abroad. —true as the fact of man’s existenco—true as the reality of his abun- dant misery ! And around me there were aunts-——and uncles—and cousins innu- merable; of whom it was said, ‘“‘ Alas! poor creature—he or she has shown symptoms of the family misfortune!’’ And then I was told in a few days, that the relative thus alluded to, had gone mad like the rest! Thus my thoughts—my actions—my dreams—my pursuits, had all reference to the accursed fear that I should soon follow the same path which was so frequently trodden by denizens of my own family. d- dening—maddening was this state of existence—maddening by day— maddening by night—maddening—maddening ! By day! af yes—the very shadows of the green trees, as I walked in the garden or the grove—seemed horrid forms distorted into shapes of mockery and unholiness. The rays of the sun appeared to operate , upon my brain, and rob it of all its moisture. The busy scenes that were enacting around me seemed all founded upon the principles of madness. Even in sacred places—in churches—the celestial music, . the anthem, the voices of the choristers, only formed a strange jargon which resembled the gibberish of insanity. Music was fraught with the melancholy of madnéss—silence with the loneliness—noise with the distraction—society with the confusion—solitude with the dread of that lingering—ever present— constant thought—madness! And by night! ]°eavens—how acutely was the dread of becoming mad felt by night! The shadows of darkness were distorted Dy a feverish imagination into appalling shapes—dreaded apparitions ho- vered around my bed—my night-gear was a winding-sheet—my couch a coffin—my curtains funereal drapery. Reflection was so acute during the silence of the night, that thought was a species of physical—it was more than a moral—pain: and, should a storm arise, the artillery of heaven seemed to carry the violence of a mad deity upon its wing. I was the only daughter of those parents whose fate I before alluded to. At the age of fifteen I was residing with an aunt, in one of the most beautiful parts of Kent, not many miles distant from the ancient city of Canterbury. My relative was not in affluent circumstances— she, however, possessed a competency—for her husband, in the midst of the most flourishing mercantile transactions, had suddenly mani- fested symptoms of an aberration of the intellects—and he also died in a mad-house ! In the vicinity of my aunt’s abode dwelt a rich country gentleman, who had an only son. One afternoon, as my relative and myself were seated in the little garden opposite our modest dwelling, a handsome young man on horseback rode up to the gate, and requested to be _ favoured with something to quench bis thirst. Never had I beheld such dark black eyes before—such long curling hair—such a sweet expression of countenance—and, withal, such a manly bearing, as that young man possessed. His voice was soft and penetrating —his man- ners fascinating and agreeable—and his address courteous and respect- ful. At the very first moment that I saw him, he made a deep im- pression upon my mind. The wine-and-water which my aunt proffered him, was accepted with thanks ; aud having drank it, he took his leave and was soon out of sight. GOnnCDOOkKS q) (c@